


Ingredient

by mcicioni



Category: Italy Unpacked (TV) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22152529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/pseuds/mcicioni
Summary: Another Italian dish, another moment of getting to know each other.Series 2, episode 2. Giorgio: "I just kind of worry a bit, which is the part of the recipe, to worry a little bit about it, it is an ingredient."
Relationships: Andrew Graham-Dixon/Giorgio Locatelli
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	Ingredient

**Author's Note:**

  * For [colisahotnorthernmess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/gifts).



> All my gratitude to Darcyone, who always makes wonderful language suggestions, and who will soon taste the dish described here.
> 
> Total, shamefully schmaltzy, fluff.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is based on the public personae of two real people, but the situation and emotions in the story are entirely my invention.

“ _Accidentaccio_.” Standing in front of the old-fashioned kitchen range – they’re in a country cottage somewhere in the Veneto hills, a tiny bathroom, two tiny bedrooms, and a kitchen as big as the Piazza San Marco – Giorgio scowls at the smaller of the two saucepans, where some reddish stock has not quite reached simmering point. Then he decides to provide verbal encouragement, and growls, “Get to boiling point, you stupid stock. Or else.”

“Or else?” Seated at the table, Andrew lifts his eyes from the book he’s reading and pushes his glasses from his nose to his forehead. He knows that _accidenti_ is roughly equivalent to _damn_ , and _accidentaccio_ must be _accidenti_ squared.

“Or else, I don’t know.” Giorgio scoops up a ladleful of stock, tastes it, carefully adds it to the pan where the rice is sautéeing, and starts stirring energetically. “I have told you before, worry is an ingredient of every _deesh_ ,” when he gets emotional his vowels tend to lengthen, and Andrew finds it delightful, “that’s why I sometimes swear at the food and at my staff.”

Andrew gets up and peers into the saucepan. “Why is the stock red?”

“Because I added some of the water I boiled the beetroot in.” He stops stirring for a second, and turns to glance at Andrew. “Veneto risotto, different from the classical risotto, which of course is the go-to dish in Lombardy.” His voice rises a little, becomes sterner. “Now, Andrew, I have a job for you.”

“Your wish is my command,” Andrew says, deliberately meek and mild.

“ _Ma va_ , come off it,” Giorgio scoffs, adding more stock and stirring. “The boiled beetroot is on the table. Grate it, and don’t grate your fingertips into it, I don’t want them in the risotto.”

This gratuitous slur cannot go unpunished. Andrew dutifully grates the beetroot into a bowl and waits for Giorgio to grab the bowl. Then, when both of Giorgio’s hands are busy, one transferring the beetroot into the risotto and the other stirring yet more stock into the mixture, he strokes Giorgio’s back, a leisurely downward motion from the nape of the neck to the waist, which becomes a possessive, strong squeeze of Giorgio’s delicious, muscular backside. Giorgio twitches and wheels around, shouting _cazzo_ , which is stronger than _accidenti_ as an expletive; a ladleful of red liquid sprinkles the stove top, Giorgio’s left arm, the floor and the wall. A few drops actually do end up in the pan.

“I can’t _keell_ you right now because _thees_ is the most delicate moment,” Giorgio’s vowels are all over the place now, but he is still stirring away. “I’ll wait until the risotto is ready.”

The plated risotto is a feast for the eyes as well as the nose. It smells of dill, parsley and a hint of balsamic vinegar, and at the centre of each of the two red mounds of rice and melted beetroot there is a large, pointed dollop of sour cream. 

“Go ahead and kill me now,” Andrew says, tucking in even before Giorgio sits down opposite him, and leaning back in utter bliss after the first mouthful. “I will die happy, this is unbelievably good.” He slowly brings another forkful to his mouth and waits for it to release its blend of delicious flavours. “Dill … garlic … a tiny bit of pancetta … And the main ingredient, of course.”

“Main _ingreedient_?” Giorgio frowns. “Equal amounts of rice and beetroot …” He glances at Andrew’s grin and laughs out loud. “Oh. You do remember. The worry.” He grabs Andrew’s free hand and slowly runs his fingertips up and down his forearm. “It’s like when we have sex,” he says, and Andrew puts down his fork and looks at him. Giorgio returns the look, seriously. There must be a point he needs to make; Andrew nods and smiles encouragingly.

Giorgio goes on: “Every time, _before_ , I worry, because I’m not sure that I’ll give you what you want, and then, _during_ and _afterwards_ ,” and now he beams at Andrew, proudly and a little smugly, “it always works out, and it’s incredible. So … the worry, it’s an ingredient of sex as well.” 

Andrew breathes slowly a couple of times, to stop himself saying something really soppy. “Let’s finish this masterpiece before it gets cold,” he says quietly, “and then we’ll go next door and test your theory.” He picks up his fork again. “ _Buon appetito_.”


End file.
